The Times They Are AChangin'
by Kabuki1
Summary: A series of chapters from the point of view of Jonathan Crane, Bruce Wayne, The Joker, and Harvey Dent as events lead them to their final fates. Pre-Batman Begins. No pairings.
1. Confounding Variable

**Title: **The Times They Are A-Changin'**  
>Universe: <strong>Pre-Batman Begins, Nolanverse with some occasional references to DCAU thrown in.**  
>Genre: <strong>Genfic**  
>Rating: <strong>G**  
>CharactersPairings: **Bruce Wayne, Joker, Harvey Dent, Jonathan Crane, Rachel Dawes, Alfred Pennyworth**  
>Word Count: <strong>7,672**  
>Summary:<strong> Four characters, in turn, make some choices and experience the results.

**Chapter 1: Confounding Variable**

"No, I'm sorry but there's nothing to be done about it now." Jonathan Crane was packing up his materials and preparing to head home for the semester. He certainly didn't have time for a student who suddenly was concerned about his class. "Final grades have already been submitted."

"But that's not fair!" The girl had tears in her eyes, but they were angry tears. He could feel the silence in the faculty lounge as everyone stayed quiet yet eavesdropped. The tension in his head was taut enough to snap. Hopefully his hands wouldn't begin to shake. "I showed up for most of your class! I have five kids and I can't make it every day at 8 in the morning, not with my husband's work schedule."

"You should have thought of that before signing up for my class, Katherine. University work is a commitment."

"But I earned a B in your class without the absences!"

"It was a low C, actually." He sighed, "Katherine, you must understand that attendance is important. This is one of the ideas we must all buy into when we collectively embark on a semester together. You missed ten days of class, Katherine. Why do you suppose that would be excusable in any university?"

"My other professors didn't fail me for it."

"Then your other professors obviously expect less of you, and get it." He snapped his briefcase closed. "Good day, Katherine. If you like, you may submit an appeal but I doubt anything will come of it."

If he had only known then that it was the beginning of the end, that Katherine's appeal would begin the investigation into his methods which provided his higher ranking colleagues the long-hoped for opportunity to fire him, he might have submitted a change of grade form for the girl right then. Instead, he'd hurried out of the Social Sciences building, not feeling safe until he was belted in his car and on the road.


	2. Martha's Garden

**Chapter 2: Martha's Garden**

He closed his eyes and breathed in, allowing the scent of his mother's rose garden to mingle with the pollution that hung over Gotham like a cloud. He'd breathed that air since he was a child, but had never really appreciated it before until he'd smelled other air and allowed himself to call other cities home. Part of him would always long for the freedom to hop a train or stick out a thumb along some highway and go where he pleased, but those days were gone now. He'd dreamed of this for years, and now that he was back in Gotham at his father's house, he was nearly giddy. The feel of the pavers beneath his bare feet was the same, and as the mist was burned off the surrounding trees and flowers, he could peer with greater clarity at the looming city in the distance. Wayne Tower was among them, and he had work to do.

"It's good to be back, isn't it sir?" There was a note of pleading in Alfred's voice, reminding Bruce of the pain he must have caused in his absence.

"It is. I'd forgotten the view exactly. It was different in memory, but now that I see it again everything is the same."

"Not everything, Master Bruce. You are far from the restless boy who returned for Joseph Chill's trial years ago."

"I have a plan, Alfred."

"The well-planned look suits you, sir."

Bruce sipped his iced coffee and stared at this city, thinking. His mother's roses enveloped him on all sides: Peace and Royal Highness standing like sentries against the house on either side of the patio, the arbor above dripping with Handel and New Dawn in a pink and white wave, and bushels of The Fairy, Iceberg, and Angel Face massed to fill in gaps. It was a chorus of fragrances and color, and just sitting there as his mother must have done once while looking on the fruits of all her hard work was a bit staggering. The roses had been a good deal smaller then; he could measure his time away by the explosion of growth and blooms as the roses crowded amicably together.

Had she lived, Martha Wayne might have retired from philanthropy and spent the rest of her days indulging in more horticultural pursuits. As it was, her love of rose propagation and dedication to the art had attracted many others. One of her final acts had been the completion of the Wayne Botanical Gardens in Midtown just north of the reservoir. The area had been chosen specifically to encourage visitors from all walks of life to visit, and its ample resources continued to attract horticulturalists and botanists, both amateur and professional, from across the nation. She'd loved her garden and Bruce had selfishly abandoned it. He knew nothing of plants, only a few of the names for ones in her garden, and then only because she'd told him often. If it hadn't been for Alfred, the garden might have been lost, along with the rest of the house his father had built, to a new buyer.

Bruce made a mental note to give the head gardener and his staff a bonus.


	3. Nowhere Man

**Chapter 3: Nowhere Man**

She was still shuffling the papers on her desk as though that were the end of it. "We'll expect you out by this afternoon. Please be sure to leave your keys with Doreen downstairs." She looked up at him and sighed, "Look, this isn't something we're proud of but the company can't afford to take any more risks."

"Risks." He didn't look particularly upset, but his eyes had that deepness that made some of his coworkers very slightly uncomfortable as though he were sizing up everyone he spoke to. "Risks. Excuse me for asking, Julie, but how exactly am I a risk?"

"Well for one, you've become more moody lately and it's making people nervous. We're all aware of how well you work with the customers, but retail is a team effort."

"Team effort. You saying I don't work well with a team?"

"I'm not saying that, no. You have the medals to prove it. But I'm not sure this is the right place for you."

"So you're firing me—"

"We're laying you off, not—"

"You're firing me because you don't like me. Is that basically it, Julie? I make you nervous, huh?"

She shivered a bit at the tone, the drawling tone that implied he could come across the desk between them and do something terrible to her if he wanted. But then the air changed and he just sighed, "Look, I really need this job, okay? Can't you just give me some time?"

"No. I'm sorry, but I can't. We have to cut back, especially with the economy the way it is now. I'll be happy to write you a reference, but I'm afraid that's as far as it goes."

The man stood, brushing his lanky blond hair behind his ears. "Sucks, but I guess that's just the way it goes." He put out a hand and they shook, though his handshake was far firmer. He looked at her closely for a moment before nodding once. "Right, I'll get out of your way now."

"Take care," she muttered, but he was already out the door and back to his cubicle. That had gone better than she'd expected. The man was nice enough, but something about him gave her the creeps.


	4. The Chariot

**Chapter 4: The Chariot**

"Are you kidding me?" Harvey leaned forward in his chair. "How did it happen, Steve?"

"This is Gotham, Mr. Dent, it's practically by the book in this town." His paralegal rubbed the back of his neck. It was a nervous gesture Harvey knew by now to mean that Steve was a bit ashamed, guilty. Interesting. "Men in tough suits and briefcases full of money are taken more seriously than lawyers in this town, and act as a better defense."

"Well that leaves us one option: go after the mob."

Steve's bark of laughter only furthered Harvey's suspicions. "That's ridiculous. Look, I know you're not from around here, Mr. Dent, but the mob's the law in this town."

"No, Steve, the law is the law." Harvey stood and began to pace, "Give me some time. No disturbances."

"Sure thing." Steve gathered his paperwork and slipped out, closing the door behind him. Harvey was none too glad; the man was bought, he could practically smell it on him, yet there was nothing he could do. He couldn't just fire someone without evidence, but until he did he'd have a very obvious leak on his hands. If they were willing to go after even a paralegal like Steve, barely out of college, they'd be eager for anyone higher up. Since moving to Gotham, Harvey had been floored by the depth and breadth of the corruption – it was unlike anything he'd ever seen or even read about. Chicago had been notorious during the time of prohibition, but the more he looked at it the more Gotham seemed to have claimed that title for itself in recent years. He'd been challenged in Chicago, but working in Gotham was comparable to being flung into the lion's den. It was a challenge and, although he knew he should be afraid, Harvey had never been one to shy away from a challenge.

So he would shadow Steve; the man was small time but it might give a heads up on the way the mob approached people and the telltale signs of corruption. He knew the signs in Chicago, but Gotham was different. It would be stupid to assume all mobs ran a similar operation. He'd study the problem then go about eradicating it from each and every public office. The more he thought about it, the more it was the only way to begin. He downed the rest of his Red Bull and did a quick Google search to pinpoint Steve's home address. It wouldn't be hard to drive by every so often and see what he could see.


	5. The Discourse Community

**Chapter 5: The Discourse Community**

"All done, Dr. Crane."

The man in question looked up from his notes and adjusted his thin spectacles. "Excellent, your fine motor skills are showing definite improvement." The patient smiled, a big toothy grin to which his doctor only managed a faint smirk in response before returning to his work. It felt counterproductive to spend time working with post-traumatic stress victims, eradicating fears was such a waste after all, but he consoled himself with the work outside of his primary employment. He'd received a text message from the man that morning during his commute informing him that half of the money would be delivered in the next day or two during his weekend off. The liaison would also be introducing him to contacts that would provide most of the ingredients he needed to finish his experimentation on the compound before distributing the first part of the solution into the Gotham water supply. He'd been able to make very little progress since losing his position at the university, particularly since his grants had all been considered property of the department and not the individual who worked so hard to obtain it.

"Dr. Crane?" One of the orderlies this time, standing in the doorway. "Mr. Arkham wants to see you."

Crane looked at his watch and sighed. It was a few minutes early, but duty called. It never did to keep Jeremiah Arkham waiting. "You heard, gentlemen. We'll continue your session tomorrow morning."

Another orderly had arrived, and between the two of them they managed to round up the PTSD sufferers as Crane gathered his notes and slipped from the room. It didn't take him long to reach the old wing, though he had to pass several wandering patients and the bustling rec room in the process. Some of the patients recognized him and a few tried to instigate conversation. He pretended he hadn't heard.

Jeremiah Arkham's office was hard to miss – the head of the asylum was and probably always would be a member of the Arkham family, and Amadeus Arkham, in building the facility he would dedicate to his wife after her murder, made certain that his descendants would work in gothic style. The door was larger than necessary, tall and rounded like a portcullis instead of an office door. It was flanked by two granite statues, one male and one female. Both were nude and staring in a peculiar mix of unabashed adoration and terror at the door between them. It was the first thing that new inmates saw upon entering if they were criminally inclined instead of the more docile PTSD victims, failed suicides, eating disordered, and all the more dull inhabitants. The dangerous ones were brought to Jeremiah Arkham for inspection before being processed for the first time; it was a tactic Crane admired, one that allowed Arkham to surreptitiously examine and judge the new inmates for himself. Supposedly it was a custom begun by Amadeus Arkham, but Crane admired Jeremiah for continuing it despite the obvious concerns of his security team. Crane knocked on the oversized door and, hearing a sharp "Come in," he did as asked.

The room was dark, but that was nothing unusual – yet another tactic to instill fear in his newcomers that Crane admired. The attempt was of course lost on Crane himself, but he had to give credit for the attempt. "I was told that you wished to see me."

"Yes, Dr. Crane, please sit." He gestured to a wingback chair, green and inviting near the fire. Crane sat and helped himself to the offered lemon tea. Jeremiah sat in the identical chair across from him, and in the light the man looked more haggard than usual. "I just wanted to know what you're up to."

"Up to?" He kept his tone neutral but already Crane's mind had leapt to work, examining the plans he'd begun for his mysterious foreign employer. He'd been terribly careful about which inmates to select for the creation and implementation of his two part toxin. He'd done most of the work with them after hours, the guards working those shifts of course ones employed by Falcone for the delicate task. He'd been as careful as he'd known how to be. He sat back in the chair, blinked in his best impression of the innocent yet shrewd professional, and sipped his tea. "I'm not sure what you mean."

Arkham chuckled, "You amaze me, sitting so calmly as I call your bluff. You've got your hand in so many pots you have no idea which I mean."

"If you are attempting to insult me, you're doing a fantastic job."

"No, not insult you." Arkham looked up, presumably at the life sized portrait of his great grandfather over the fireplace. "If I thought you foolish enough to need insulting, I certainly wouldn't have pushed so hard to hire you as our director."

"Then what seems to be the problem?"

"Mr. Zsasz is the problem, or at least that's how the police feel about it. You're being too obvious, Jonathan. I know exactly how you feel, but you must be patient."

Crane blinked, "I doubt you know my mind better than I do. That aside, I assure you Mr. Zsasz exhibited all the signs of a textbook sociopath with obsessive tendencies –"

"Which makes him no different from the rest of the rubbish in Blackgate."

"I conducted a series of very exacting tests, all to my highest standards, and I assure you –"

"Jonathan, I'm not worried about whether or not Mr. Zsasz is insane. I'm sure we both know this place will work at him until he fits the mold, so to speak. I didn't call you here to reprimand you. I called you here to affirm what I already know."

"And that is?"

"That we share a passion for madness." He smiled, "It really is beautiful watching them lose their minds here. I do believe that it is my favorite part about owning this institution. I love watching them think they've beat the system, and then watching as the very stones remake them, or rather whittle away the excess to bring out the madness that was always within. You did very well choosing Zsasz, Jonathan. That's all I wanted to tell you."

Crane waited for a suitable reply to pop into his head, but all he could manage was, "Thank you."

Jeremiah nodded, "I'll be going abroad in the next few weeks. I'll be spending a few months in Rome with my family. Shall I bring you anything?"

Remembering the madness of Nero, Crane drained his teacup. "You needn't worry about such things."

Arkham stood and Crane did the same. "Then goodnight, Jonathan. I trust you'll accomplish work in the next few months that will make me proud."

_Yes_, Crane thought as he bid Arkham good night, _I suppose I shall_.


	6. Realigning the Consciousness

**Chapter 6: Realigning the Consciousness**

"Hi Leslie."

"Bruce! Look at you, all grown up." The pair of them moved aside for a small team rushing a bleeding man on a makeshift gurney down the hall. Leslie watched them pass for a moment. When she looked back toward Bruce, though, she brightened. "Alfred mentioned you'd be dropping by Gotham again, but I never imagined you'd actually want to stay this time. What brings you all the way down here?"

"I'd like to talk with you," a nurse pushed past them with a brisk excuse, "in private, if you have time."

"Time isn't something anyone really has around here, but I'll give you what I can." She led him down the hall of Sacred Heart Hospital, one of the older hospitals in Gotham and coincidentally the one at which his father had both worked and been pronounced dead.

Bruce could have found Leslie's office in his sleep – it was the office of the head surgeon and, thus, the one in which Bruce himself had played as a child while waiting for his father to finish an operation or a staff meeting. Leslie had replaced the sleek brown leather with more feminine prints, but the sense of déjà vu was still strong. Bruce seated himself opposite the desk as Leslie took her seat, and braced himself for the inevitable rebuke.

Leslie was a diminutive woman, her hair pulled back in a steel grey bun and her eyes keenly aware behind her bifocals, but Bruce had no illusions about her fragility. She had worked her way into a position of authority in the medical community in a time when women weren't considered suitable for such fine work. "I'm glad to see you Bruce, but I've been following your pursuits in the news. Do you have a life plan or do you plan on simply living off the good name of your parents?"

He'd expected that kind of response. "It's really not what it looks like."

"It looks like you're a fool."

"Leslie, I'm trying to avenge them but I need your help."

That seemed to startle her back to his point. "Avenge them? Bruce, you're not a member of the police force. You never even graduated from college, something your father would never have believed when he was alive."

"There were things college couldn't teach me. I had to go where I could find them."

"Bruce," she shook her head, "your father would have wanted you to live for yourself. What good is a life wasted on revenge? Who are you living for if not for yourself?"

"This is something I'm doing for myself, Leslie." They stared at each other for along moment. On the oak desk a clock ticked relentlessly.

Finally Leslie sighed and stood, walking to the window with her arms behind her back. She looked across the grounds. "Your father didn't build this place, Bruce, but his heart was in it just as much as mine is now. I was with him when he fought to install the Wayne Foundation. I helped him put this hospital on the map as one of the most reliable in Gotham. Now it's scheduled for demolition and you, Bruce, are throwing your life away in the name of revenge. Who will you revenge yourself against? Joseph Chill is dead."

"Flacone isn't."

"Then you'll work your way up the chain, stopping every one of them. Assuming you don't get yourself killed or arrested for vigilantism, what good will it do? You'll leave a vacancy for new crime lords for one thing, and you might set a dangerous precedent for vigilantism in this city, not all of which will hold themselves to your high standards. Will you fight them too? Will you fight endlessly until someone finally murders you as well? And then what?" She sighed, "This is madness, Bruce. Devote yourself to a profession, do honest work, help people as your mother and father tried to do. Your resources give you a chance to help others."

"I intend to do philanthropic work as my parents did, Leslie, but I also have to get my hands dirty. I can't just give money to a police force I know is corrupt. I can't just sit idly by while men like Falcone are allowed to roam free."

"You're going to get yourself killed."

"It's a distinct possibility." They stared at each other for a long time before finally, shaking, the old woman sank into her desk chair. She fumbled for the desk drawer, and for a mad instant Bruce was certain she'd pull out a two-way radio or an old-fashioned black telephone to call the police. His muscles tensed, ready to react. Instead she pulled free a tissue and dabbed at her eyes. A lump he hadn't realized was in his chest tightened. "Leslie, I'm not trying to hurt you or Alfred or anyone else who loved my parents –"

"And loves you, Bruce. It would kill Alfred to lose you too, haven't you realized that?" Her voice was wavering badly but she didn't allow the tears to take control.

"I know, Leslie, but I have to do this. This city is corrupt, dying, and there's really no other way to stop this madness than to circumvent the legal channels and do it myself. I have the resources and the training to make this work. I know I can make it work. And if I can prevent just one other child from going through what I went through that night, it will all be worthwhile. You're a medical woman, Leslie, one of the best in Gotham; yet you choose to hang on here at Sacred Heart even though it's scheduled to be condemned. The funding's been dwindling for years just because of the location: surrounded by the poor. Yet you stay here instead of applying to any other the other hospitals in Gotham. You stay to help the people here because you know that if you don't help them then no one else will."

She nodded, "I see what you're trying to say, Bruce. I… I don't want to have to identify you on a mortuary table, that's all."

"I know."

She approached him, hugged him, and it was a few moments before a stunned Bruce could remember to hug back.


	7. Glad All Over

**Chapter 7: Glad All Over**

"That'll be sixty-five ninety-seven." He slid the few remaining goods into a plastic bag and waited for the customer to pull out her card. "Debit or credit?"

"Debit." He punched the button and she slid her card; a simple transaction all around. Nope, nothing simpler in the world than sliding cards and buying things, or so it seemed. When the receipt printed he folded it and passed it across the pin pad. "There you go, have a pleasant day." She left, and the next customer appeared. Wash, rinse, repeat. He had three hours left in his shift, then he knew he would walk home to avoid wasting money on the bus, slouch into his living room to watch _Lost_ or _CSI_ for a few hours, then go to sleep. Wash, rinse, repeat.

This one was buying a newspaper, and as he scanned the barcode he couldn't help but notice the article beside the headline: Batman Sighted Again! There was a tiny black and white picture of something that seemed battish and manly, but no one could be sure. It was like looking at a photo of the Loch Ness Monster. He bagged the paper and handed it to the customer with the usual platitudes before starting on the next one, but his mind was churning.

Gotham was a piece of shit town, so shitty that rape victims went home to cry themselves to sleep instead of filing reports and veterans were offered job opportunities that were far too tempting even though they were technically illegal. The only way to make money in Gotham was to swallow your pride and try to ignore the mob versus cop feud. Money was necessary to survival. He'd lived on the street long enough to know he had it good when he could walk into a grocery store or a fast food place and afford to take things home with him without resorting to a desperate five-finger discount. He'd been thinking about that scuzzo mobster's offer, and the bonus of ammo enough to do the job was tempting. He was a crack shot, always had been, even had a medal for it somewhere, but the mob wasn't the armed forces. No sir. It would be wrong to kill for the mob, and he knew deep down that once he stepped into that snare they'd never let him go. They'd make him kill after that, cause he was good at it. But did he really want to go back to taking orders?

He bagged some eggs and bread together and considered his options.


	8. The Hanged Man

**Chapter 8: The Hanged Man**

"I don't know how I feel about you taking this case, Ms. Dawes."

"I had no idea the great Harvey Dent was such a chauvinist."

She was sorting files. They'd only been sharing an office for a week and already she was almost settled. Harvey still had files poking out of boxes in stacks across his desk and on the floor, some taller than he was. He had to lean around the stacks to see her, which proved difficult. Mostly they spoke without making eye contact, disembodied voices muffled by file boxes between and all around them. "It's not like that. I just don't think you should go after that Dr. Crane so relentlessly if you think he's tied up with Falcone. They're dangerous men, and I don't want you getting hurt."

"That's sweet, Mr. Dent –"

"Harvey. Call me Harvey, please. We're sharing an office after all."

"Harvey, then. I don't have patience for the mob in this town. They've gone after some very important people. No one ever built a solid case, but everyone knows the Waynes were gunned down by the mob bosses in this town even if officially it was a botched mugging. There are millions of incidents just like that all over Gotham. I don't have time for political posturing."

"I agree." He sighed, "Look, I know you don't like me much."

"What makes you think that?"

"Well, let's call it a hunch. You don't like to talk to me much except when you're hell bent on arguing or making a point. I know you're also good friends with Jim Gordon and some of the other Gotham cops. I know what they say about me, especially after getting so many of them fired. But those men that were fired were taking money from the mob, often were making mob authorized drops, hits, and God knows what else."

She slammed a large stack of papers on her desk, "Jim Gordon isn't like that. He's the best cop I know and he's also the most dedicated."

Hervey nodded, "I know that, and everyone seems to think that I'm laying the pressure on him in particular just cause some of those cops were friends of his. But I didn't lay on the cops in this town just to make a name for myself, despite what they say about me. I did it because you can't have a just system if every inch of it is corrupt."

She was quiet for a long time, not typing or rustling papers. Harvey sighed, "Sorry about that. Everyone has been suspicious of everything I do so far."

He heard her chair push back, and then she was peering at him from around his stacks of files. "I'm hungry. Are you?"

"I could go for some lunch."

"Good. I'll drive, and while we're out you can tell me what you're planning. I want in."

Harvey smiled and grabbed his coat. "Yes ma'am."


	9. Empirical Research

**Chapter 9: Empirical Research**

His employer had said it was time to begin, so Jonathan had done just that. He'd gathered the lunatics that wouldn't talk or that he could trust – Zasz in particular had a knack for this sort of business – and set them to work mixing the chemical. It would be a few weeks before they'd have enough to begin tainting the water supply, and even then there were preparations to make such as somehow tearing a hole in the artery that supplied the water to the city itself. The metal was thick and over a hundred years old. It wasn't going to be a simple job, not without moving large equipment and that could raise suspicion. Jonathan Crane had no intention of getting himself captured before he'd even begun, and although Jeremiah Arkham was out of the way and Ra's Al Ghul would keep the police from troubling him, there was still the matter of nosy individuals poking around. Like that Rachel Dawes. Or the Batman.

There were a few handpicked lunatics he'd selected to direct the others in his absence but it was still difficult work. At the end of a day at Arkham, Crane was compelled to return to his home to avoid any suspicion. He had to order Chinese, take out the trash, do the laundry, and in all ways seem like an average citizen of Gotham. When he woke each morning, he showered and shaved with gusto, hurrying to the Asylum to check on his project before resuming his role as model psychiatrist and Head Doctor. Falcone was not performing as well as hoped regarding the Dawes women, and there was the constant fear that the young Assistant District Attorney would find like-minded individuals in the police department, perhaps in that Lieutenant Gordon, and serve him with a search warrant. It would be too soon, and although Ra's Al Ghul seemed to have planned for everything Crane was not foolish enough to think anyone could plan for every possible outcome.

He'd dealt with a man just a few days ago, actually, claiming to have heard sounds in the night from beneath his cell. Crane had suggested medication to fend off delusion, but if one lunatic had noticed then surely the less insane residents would take note as well.

It didn't matter though. In the end, everyone would know what Crane had been up to: a revered and trusted symbol of authority actually spending his time planning to plunge a city full of trusting innocents into madness and terror. The headlines were certainly going to be entertaining. And after it was done, his benefactor had promised that Crane would be protected for his part in making the whole scenario possible. It was going to be a beautiful scene, the entire city writhing in terror, but he did have a secret desire: that somehow Batman himself would show and be incapacitated for capture and eventual study. His reaction to the mind-melting power of his toxin had been delicious, even if the man had somehow escaped and recovered enough to show up within a week as a grainy photograph in the _Gotham Gazette_. The thought of finally subduing the costumed vigilante and drugging him into raving lunacy was enough to keep Crane's daytime activities at least mildly entertaining despite the run-of-the-mill counseling and advice he was forced to give on a daily basis. It might be something to write a paper on, if he took his notes carefully.

As he directed the orderlies and murmured his usual platitudes to his staff, he was careful to stay calm and never let on that greater plans were in motion. However, the world seemed full of color for the first time in a long time. He tested and retested the various formulae in his office as the weeks slipped by. When letters came he thumbed through them quickly, searching. When the phone rang, he was always quick to answer. It wouldn't be long now, he was quite sure. The order would come and then, he couldn't help but smile to himself at the thought, Gotham would go down in history as the largest experiment in fear that the world had ever known.


	10. Bushido

**Chapter 10: Bushido**

When Bruce Wayne walked into a bar, it was hard not to attract attention. However, when he sauntered in wearing a wary grin and a makeup job worthy of Zatara himself, he barely got any response. It was just the way he liked it, and he tipped his hat to the bartender as he chose a dark seat far enough away from the juke box to avoid having to hear whatever the drunks or thugs chose to play but with the remainder of the room in easy view. A girl came by a moment later, young with eyes darkened by too much eye makeup. "What'll you have?"

"A beer. None of that import crap."

"Anything else?"

He merely looked at her and in a moment she turned away. He didn't like beer particularly, and he was a bit hungry to be honest, but there was something satisfying about falling so completely into his role. Malone wouldn't have ordered anything fancy and wasn't a fan of anything foreign, mostly because he didn't understand or choose to learn anything about a subject beyond Gotham. It was the perfect mindset for a hired man planning to work for the mob in Gotham. He produced a deck of playing cards from his pocket and began a game of solitaire, grunting acknowledgement when the drink arrived. He was careful to seem involved in the game, and perhaps a little depressed with something on his mind. He strained to listen to the folks in booths and at tables around him, drinking and chatting as the night grew longer. Finally, a conversation caught his attention.

"Yeah, I heard about Carlo. He's gonna be out of it for a while, what with that broke wrist."

"He say who did it?"

"Just some nutjob in a hockey mask. Nothing special, he just got a lucky shot. Next time we'll have more guys and more guns."

Matches took a swig of beer and set his ace of spades aside.

"So some douche just decided to butt in? Carlo shoulda shot his ass."

"Yeah, he's never been a great shot."

"Any idea who the guy was?"

"Some asshole with too much time to kill. We're sweeping the neighborhoods now, knocking some heads. We'll find the guy eventually."

"Yeah, put a gun in enough happy housewives' faces and you always get results."

"Ain't that the truth?"

The men laughed loudly, and the way the rest of the room quieted told volumes about their reputations. In his booth, Matches Malone was no longer laying down cards. It was all he could do not to get up and just leave, but he'd already planned and invested time in his persona. If he wanted it to be usable, he'd have to just deal with anything he overheard, no matter how upsetting. Matches wouldn't care too much about that kind of violence.

As a child, Bruce had enjoyed the stories of Sherlock Holmes. Contrary to popular belief, Holmes was no dandy in a deerstalker cap spouting "Elementary, my dear Watson" at every turn. He was a keen analyst, a man interested in boxing and other martial arts as a means of defense. But one of the traits Bruce had admired most of all was Holmes' ability to disguise himself. It was something he'd picked up later from a drama major he'd very briefly dated in his short time at Yale when she'd invited him to midnight showings of old Lon Cheney films in the dormitories. Cheney had been a master of disguise, using whatever he could to twist his face into something memorable yet still full of humanity. Bruce had studied his methods extensively, and later when he'd worked under Zatara the old man had been impressed with Bruce's homegrown skills, roughhewn as they were. It all went back to Holmes, though. The man had been adept at using his disguises to learn about the criminals he pursued. Bruce had studied the subtle cues of body language and the volumes that could be said through simple facial expression. He'd thought himself well-prepared, but Zatara had laughed at him long ago when he'd finally confessed his purpose in learning the art of illusion. "Bruce, you're out of your league. It is not enough to mimic the people you seek to infiltrate. You must also think like them."

Bruce had not wavered, "I've studied the criminal mind. I've lived among them, stolen to feed myself, been made a prisoner."

Zatara only shook his head, "I'm not so sure that you will find this a simple task, nor am I sure that you will benefit from it. It will only serve to fuel your hate, and that can never lead to healing."

Now the words floated back to him. Critically, he studied his own behavior in that instant. He was hesitating in his game, obviously disturbed by something. That something could only have been the words of the men: they were being loud enough to attract everyone's attention. His drink was relatively untouched, something a man who had come to a bar to overcome his sorrows would never have neglected. The muscles on his face were tense as well, indicating some amount of stress: furrowed brow, glaring at the cards laying before him, his body still and wound tight as a predator's.

He stood, downed the bitter beer, left a modest tip, and collected his cards. He needed more practice. Zatara had been right: this business of passing himself off as a disinterested criminal in need of a illicit work would take more practice. Matches Malone would need some refinement. At least he'd made an appearance though, however modest. That would make him slightly familiar the next time he entered the bar. It would have to count for something.

In the meantime, he'd need to finish the costume. Batman would need to act soon if he wanted to spare the innocent people living nearby from potentially vicious attacks. If the men wanted to meet their attacker again, Bruce was more than willing to oblige.


	11. Revolution 9

**Chapter 11: Revolution 9**

"You know, you really need to develop a sense of humor about these things, sweetie." He accepted the small envelope of cash. It was the sum total of his savings and, although the bank tellers had been loath to hand it over, he'd been insistent. Folks withdrew large sums every day, especially to transfer them to other banks. All he had to do was act disgruntled, but deep down he felt like the outraged kid in _Mary Poppins_.

The teller ignored him, all business as usual. "Will there be anything else, sir?"

"I think I'm good for now, thanks." He smiled a bit and she smiled back. It was so typical: smile and the world smiles back, even if you're having a shitty day, life, or whatever. It must be the blond hair, not that he was anything but a dirty blond. Or maybe it was the eyes? Whatever it was, he'd somehow been cursed with the kind of boyish appearance that made people smile back at him. Somehow it made people not pay him much attention either, though really a white guy dressed in nondescript clothes would have a hard time attracting too much attention in the right neighborhood. He had to be careful if he wanted to pull off his great transformation, like a caterpillar into a beautiful butterfly.

"Would you be interested in a credit card? There's bonuses every time you buy food, clothing, or gas."

"Um, no." He glanced out the glass cubicle as an important looking man with a balding scalp and a firm scowl made his way across the floor of the bank. He approached a pair of men and shook their hands, gesturing for them to come to his office. The guy on the left was a nobody, but the one on the right in the expensive yet too-boring suit…

"Hey, is that Sal Maroni?"

The teller looked up and her eyes went just a bit wider than before, but she was back to her typing in an instant. "I'm not good with faces, sir."

It was like karma, providence, a lucky bet. Who would have expected such a meeting, and Maroni had no idea what was coming. He glanced at the bills in his bulging envelope, fresh from his bank account. It was all the money he had in the world; all just part of a money laundering scam. Cute, but not too original. What kind of a town was it where the mob could just openly own a bank? It could only happen in Gotham, really.

"Alright, all done." She handed the form across the desk and he signed away, probably the last time he'd ever use that old name. Good riddance. He passed the paper back and, just for laughs, smiled at her; she smiled back, all mauve lipstick and teeth. "Thank you for your business, sir, and if you ever wish to join Gotham Bank again, please don't hesitate." He didn't stick around to listen to the well-rehearsed speech. He had his cash, roughly eight grand. Tomorrow he'd move out of his apartment, leave a forwarding address to an imaginary PO Box outside of town, and that would be the end of all ties that bind. His old self would begin to vanish like so many homeless folks do every day, and his new life would begin.


	12. Wheel of Fortune Final Chapter

**Chapter 12: Wheel of Fortune**

"This has to be the best place we've gone yet, don't you think?"

Rachel was looking contemplative again, inhaling her merlot before talking a slow sip. It took her a moment to respond, "My god, Harvey, this wine."

"I know. I'm dreading the check."

She smirked from across the table, "It was your idea to try something new. We could have just left once we saw there were no prices on the menu. There's no shame in that."

"There might be if I end up running for District Attorney in the fall. Besides, what's a salary for if you don't spend it?" He took another bite of his meal, sea bass with shallots and garlic. It was the best he'd ever had, but he suspected he could duplicate it at home if he analyzed it long enough.

"So you're really going to run?"

"I didn't say that. I'm just thinking it over."

Rachel sighed, "Harvey, this city needs someone like you. It can't just keep relying on crooked cops and… and…"

"The Batman?" He watched her closely now, and indeed a sadness came over her when that name was mentioned. He had suspected that she knew who the guy was, and out of that suspicion he could easily narrow the list to just a handful of men. The depth of her emotional reaction, though, pointed to just one man. Harvey didn't want to broach the subject, and so far they'd both silently agreed not to talk about it. "No, we don't know anything about him. He's going after small timers but hasn't really proven he's not just trying to take over where the big guys' reach ends or that he hasn't been hired by some out of town mafia. Also, he's a man in a bat suit. I'm saving my judgment on him, though; so far he's in the right as far as I'm concerned."

Rachel smiled, albeit thinly, and took another sip of her wine. The waiter came by, deftly refilled her glass from the bottle they were splitting, and then vanished. "You're changing the subject, Harvey. I think you should run for DA."

"I'm not sure how that'd go over with the natives. Former Chicago attorney runs for Gotham DA – I don't know how well that'll fly."

She leaned over and touched his hand, the one resting by his dinner plate. "I believe in you, Harvey. Not being from Gotham is actually a strength."

"I doubt the national averages would agree with you."

"Gotham's not like other towns, Harvey. You grew up here; you know how it is."

He did, and for a moment he allowed himself to remember his father accepting envelopes full of bills on the back porch and his mother being sent to Arkham Asylum for special treatment, treatment from which she never fully recovered but which allowed his dad to extricate himself from her and move on to other, bigger breasted women. And then, because he'd allowed even the tiniest bit of the dam to open, he saw her on her return from the treatment, round eyed and pale. She'd begun to talk to herself, and sometimes she would stare for hours on end without moving even to urinate. "Yeah, yeah I know how it is."

Rachel took his hand and kissed it. "I love you, Harvey. I wouldn't ask you to do it if I didn't."

He rubbed his thumb along her cheek and smiled, "I know. You're the best thing that's ever happened to me, Rachel. I'm a lucky man."

She smiled, leaning into his hand. "We're both lucky."


End file.
